They all stared at him. Quest seized the ink bottle, revealed the false top and laid it down again with a little exclamation. Then, before they could realize it, the end came. The Professor lay, a crumpled-up heap, upon the floor. The last change of all had taken place in his face. His arms were outstretched, his face deathly white, his lips faintly curved in the half amiable, half supercilious smile of the savant who sees beyond. Quest stooped over him.
“He is dead,” he declared.
Quest swung round in his chair as French entered the room, and held out his left hand.
“Glad to see you, French. Help yourself to a cigar.”
“I don’t know as I want to smoke this morning just at present, thank you,” French replied.
Quest laid down his pen and looked up. French was fidgeting about with his hat in his hand. He was dressed more carefully than usual, but he was obviously ill at ease.
“Nothing wrong, eh?”
“No, there’s nothing wrong,” French admitted. “I just looked in—”
Quest waited for a moment. Then he crossed his legs and assumed a patient attitude.